I went away, leaving an old woman to care for the dead man and his child. It will be long before I forget how alien and far-away the noises of the street sounded as I passed out of that chamber of silence. Is it not a strange thing that death should have this power of benediction? Of a sudden a breath comes out of the heavens, our little cares are touched by an eternal presence, a rift is blown in the thick mists that hem us about, and behold, we look out into infinite visionless space. And now I am back in my office. I open O'Meara's worn and much-stained _Virgil_, and inside the cover I find these words scribbled in pencil: "_I have cried unto God and He hath not heard my cry; but thou, O beloved poet, art ever near with consolation_!" I do not know whether the sentence is original with O'Meara or a quotation; it is certainly new to me. One other book I brought with me, and the two were the whole worldly possession of the dead man. This is a small but pretty thick blank-book, written over almost to the last page. I have not examined the contents carefully, but I can see that they are made up of miscellaneous passages copied from books and of reflections on a great variety of topics, with few or no records of events. One of the last entries is from Clarence Mangan's heart-breaking poem, _The Nameless One_: And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, He bides in calmness the silent morrow That no ray lights. Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell! He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble Here, and in hell.